So I've been watching TOS, and have become that one obnoxious Spones shipper on your dash. I promise it was an accident.
This is going to be a spontaneously-updated multi-chapter thing based mainly around episodes and my thoughts surrounding them; "deleted scenes" and the like with a Spock/McCoy reading that actually does develop into something resembling a romantic plot. It is entirely for my own pleasure but you can come too.
Important notes: a). I have not yet finished the series, as I'm meandering pleasantly through the third season with no real rush. b). Anything I learn in the future contradicting my headcanons about McCoy's dad (based on DeForest Kelley's dad) I will conveniently manage to forget.
The planet's atmosphere is noxious green beneath them, the shuttlecraft dipping too close to the eddying clouds. Spock knows, logically, that they have retained more members of their scientific party than they have lost. Spock also knows, logically, that this will not matter after their final orbit. His mission will be classified quite firmly as a failure.
The Galileo Seven waits to burn.
"Is there anything we can do?" McCoy asks from the seat behind him. His voice is calmer than Spock would have expected, given their situation. He hears the squeak of McCoy shifting his chair idly around its base, coupled with Mears' harsh breathing and the pattern of Boma's angry, unconscious assault on the shuttle wall with the heel of his foot.
"The Enterprise is surely on course for Makus Three by now," he replies, and taps one long finger against the rigid armrest. Then he adds, "I, for one, do not believe in angels."
He hears McCoy's quiet exhale.
Historical Vulcan mythology has never involved angel figures, even during the dark eras before the Time of Awakening. Spock learned of the legends and beliefs associated with them during his extensive study of Terran culture, and took note of their unique position in certain religious cultures: beings called in lieu of gods themselves in times of challenge or danger. Creatures, demigods in everything but name, that exist solely for the purpose of lauding their superiors and, depending on the source, protecting the mortals in their care. Created as a comforting notion to a primitive species that has since developed considerably, they represent both a medium through which well-intended wishes for safety can be expressed, and a genuine search for unexpected sources of salvation.
Spock does not have a need for the belief personally, but he understands the human desire.
The following silence is brief but nearly overwhelming. Then McCoy says: "Well, Mr. Spock, so ends your first command."
A flash of irritation sweeps through him before he squashes it down; the doctor's input is nothing short of insulting.
The patterns of the control panel lights take on a certain frantic quality that blinks insistently into his vision even as he lets his eyes lose focus. The shuttlecraft floor is no longer steady beneath his feet. For just one second he is back on the bridge of the Enterprise, and McCoy is baiting him as usual.
"Yes…my first command."
The words wander over his tongue almost without him knowing. Perhaps the doctor is looking for some confirmation of the humanity in him. One last chance for victory before the engines catch and die (he imagines he can hear them choking), before they fall and the atmosphere burns them all alive together.
When he looks back on this sequence of events he has a hard time sorting out what happens next, because it's then that the panic hits him, climbs the walls built by culture and ancestry and the blue eyes boring into his back full force. (They live, somehow. Spock saves them all.)
It doesn't make up for the lives lost on the planet due to his own mishandling of command, but overall he has preserved more life than he has lost. Analyzing the results from an entirely logical standpoint, he would have been hard put to perform better in this specific situation with the set of skills and qualities that he possesses.
The doctor calls his last action a "gamble." He also calls it "human." His tone is almost warm.
x
"C'mon, ya hobgoblin, it's not gonna kill you. Just take a seat."
McCoy sometimes indulges in a modest alcoholic beverage after he is off-duty. Often he joins Scotty, though he does not try to match the volume of the engineer's intake. He seems more of a social drinker, and Spock has noted his use of the bottle as an icebreaker, easing the nerves of new recruits or trying to get to know a difficult officer. Once, in a decision of questionable moral standing, he lured a stubborn crewmember suffering from a malignant cold strain into sickbay after he had so generously provided a couple of glasses to muddle his refusal. Crude, but ultimately effective.
Occasionally, in an apparent burst of goodwill, the doctor offers Spock a drink.
"As I have already informed you, my Vulcan heritage –"
"Yeah, I know," he grumbles, "Cursed with eternal sobriety." He sits the proffered glass back on the table, filled nearly to the brim. His own glass is nearly empty. "Well, might as well stop this one from going to waste." He still seems amiable. Spock raises his right eyebrow just slightly.
He has found it frustratingly difficult to track the doctor's opinion of him at any given time. There is a particular pattern to their interactions, but he cannot determine each tipping point. McCoy begins cordial, even bordering on sociable. Then, invariably, Spock says something to displease him and the lines of his face all turn downwards at once. The volume of his voice nearly doubles, and the index finger of his left hand exhibits a faint twitch. Spock does not purposefully antagonize him, usually, but this result is unavoidable. He has found it more efficient not to attempt diversion.
They have obviously not yet reached this point, because McCoy absently presses his pinkie against the inside of the glass's rim and says, "Did I ever tell you my papa's a preacher?"
Spock lets a controlled expression of surprise pass over his features. "Not directly, no. Though I have briefed myself on your background as a senior officer."
McCoy snorts and leans too far back in his chair, taking his glass with him. "That's the problem with having everybody's records on hand all the time. A man can't get any privacy."
Obviously the doctor is feeling expansive, which happens at inexplicable intervals. Spock taps a single finger against the opposite forearm, where they are crossed together tightly at the small of his back. "If that will be all, Doctor, I have a few biological samples in the lab that must be closely monitored, and I would like to double-check the Captain's paperwork on the Galileo Seven incident before he retires."
His mental processes are fast enough that he realizes his mistake and its consequences as he is still speaking. Were he human, he would have winced.
McCoy turns away from him to set his empty glass on the table, but his lips turn upwards into an obtrusive smirk. "Well, I wouldn't want to get in the way of sorting that whole mess out." His tone is light, almost gracefully implying the gloat. Then, because he is McCoy, he flings grace aside to hang the subject by the neck until dead. "You know that would have gone a hell of a lot better if you had taken some basic human emotion into account."
"I believe," Spock says, and very carefully does not so much as twitch, "that the mission would have been more successful should my inferiors have decided to put aside such unnecessary distractions in a time of crisis."
McCoy's lip curls into something less satisfied, and Spock allows himself a breath. The doctor encircles the rim of Spock's unused glass with the tips of his fingers, then draws it to his chest. "It must seem so easy for you, reverting to an unfeeling computer at a moment's notice."
"Invariably. If you will excuse me, Doctor."
He nods and turns to leave; McCoy makes an affronted sound that he does not have the time to indulge.
"I grew up on angels," the doctor calls after him as the doors slide shut.
x
(Not long after, the hot scent of Vulcan soil still clinging red to his uniform and T'Pau's blessing sparking uselessly against the fading hormones in his blood, Spock owes McCoy the Captain's life. He does not pretend for a minute that he owes him his conscience, because this the doctor failed to set and mend.)